


Adieu, Casablanca

by blueteak



Category: Casablanca (1942)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/pseuds/blueteak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Rick, and Captain Renault meet again in 1944.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adieu, Casablanca

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LemuelCork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemuelCork/gifts).



France, 1944

Sam didn’t get many requests for “Knock on Wood” at La Belle Aurore after liberation. Not many people—except those who had collaborated with the Nazis—were “too unhappy” these days. He’d liked playing it. Nothing brought a group of people who wouldn’t be caught dead talking or singing or plotting elsewhere together like the reminder that they all had trouble, but it wasn’t like there was a song shortage along with a food shortage in post-occupation Paris.

 

Sam had, after all, been free to play “As Time Goes By” as often as he wanted, even before Rick had left him in Casablanca. Not that he wanted to now. The world would always welcome lovers, sure, but Sam didn’t welcome sad memories of old friends. Or anything to do with Casablanca, really. Working at Rick’s Café Americain had been like being a piano player in a beehive. He’d felt stuck, surrounded by a buzz he couldn’t quite make out over his own playing. And constantly worried about being stung. 

 

Still, the buzz, despite the fear, had lulled him into a sense of complacency. He was stuck, and the queen bee had waved his stinger threateningly whenever anyone suggested taking any type of political stance, even though everyone suspected he’d never sting. The Rick of Casablanca spoke in nothing but quips. Curiously, nothing stronger had been needed to keep the hive in line. 

 

But now, after hearing some of the reports about what had been happening at those concentration camps, Sam couldn’t help but think that his reason for not getting involved initially—that it would hurt Rick, that it was alright if Carl got arrested because he hadn’t come to Casablanca with Rick and they hadn’t been as close—was no excuse. 

 

After getting an exit visa from Ferrari for having honored his agreement to play as much drudge as Ferrari requested (Sam suspected that making him play “There’s a Small Hotel” over and over and over again had been his way of advertising to everyone else that he was number one in the exit visa game now that Captain Renault had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared along with Rick), Sam had made his way to Lisbon. Once there, he had joined a resistance group recommended by Carl and added spying to his repertoire. 

 

It had not been that difficult, really. People tended to discount his language skills and spoke freely in front of him, likely thinking he couldn’t understand the import of what had been said even if he could translate it. He learned to pay more attention to which people were speaking to one another, to sense hands flashing signals that were not drink orders through the haze of smoky rooms. And if anyone grew to suspect him, especially after learning his connection with Rick, who was now of the Free French, they quickly learned that he had been left behind and had had no known political involvement in Casablanca. Perhaps that had been a blessing, after all.

 

After the liberation of Paris, though, Sam had felt that he needed to return to France. Rumor had it that Laszlo was coming back through Lisbon to be there, victorious, when the Germans were finally defeated. And to try to rebuild. Despite his appreciation for Laszlo's dedication to the cause, as well as his abilities, Sam did not want to see him, wanted no further encounters with someone who had known him only in Casablanca. He would not mind seeing Ilsa, particularly, but had a feeling she wouldn’t want to see him, or any reminders of Rick. And so he had returned to Paris. And La Belle Aurore. 

 

Though it had been boarded up and had swastikas and competing epithets in German and French painted all over its façade, Sam had recognized it, remodeled it, and made it his own—in Rick’s name. While Sam felt more comfortable in a Paris occupied by more of his countrymen than he had seen in a long time than he would have in the Nazi-occupied city, he did not feel comfortable enough to open up a bar that was clearly his. No, he had claimed that Monsieur Rick had asked him to come to Paris and re-open the bar for him. Monsieur Rick himself would be back to his beloved Paris any day now, he claimed when anyone asked. 

 

Despite the number of times he’d said Rick’s arrival was imminent, though, Sam had never really thought the day would come. 

 

Rick had walked in looking, Sam noted with relief, no worse for wear physically and properly dressed as always. 

 

The old Sam would have rushed over, possibly made Rick a drink. The Sam that had spied in Lisbon collected himself and held back the multiple feelings seeing Rick again evoked. 

 

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, and you walk into mine,” Sam said, gesturing for drinks for the both of them.

 

Rick arched an eyebrow. “Not as much of a coincidence as you’d think, seeing as my name somehow got on the lease.”

 

Francois brought their drinks over quickly, either because it was a slow evening—Sam hadn’t started playing yet—or because he’d heard the rumor spreading through the resistance-heavy crowd that this was La Belle Aurore’s “owner,” Rick. 

 

Sam thanked Francois for the drinks, then both men turned away from him for privacy and Sam raised his glass to Rick. 

 

“Oh, I’ll give you ten percent of the profits if you sing, Rick. You'll notice no one's started yet.”

 

“Send Rick singing into Berlin and Hitler will wonder why he ever thought to take on the Western front,” came a voice from behind Sam.

 

Captain Renault. Likely no longer a captain, and—perhaps wisely—not in any kind of uniform. 

 

“Is it a good idea for you to be here?” Sam asked. “Some of these people probably remember when you had Laszlo arrested.”

 

“And I’ve slept with quite a few of their wives too, Sam, you forget the other part of my reputation. But I’ve proven myself too valuable now to kill over past crimes and too pretty to hurt in any other way, so here we are.”

 

“Yes,” Rick said, glancing around the bar as though looking for something. “Here we are.” 

Sam softened, slightly, but still wanted to know why Rick hadn't come back to talk things over with him in Casablanca. 

Rick had looked down for a moment, and then came as close to apologizing to another man as he could. "You are a good friend, Sam. A man can expect that his friend will drink with him after he loses his girl. A man can hope that his friend will help get him out of a country if Nazis are about to occupy it. A man can't ask, though, that his friend, who has a good job, leave it and come live with him and a two-faced Frenchman in a cave."

"Ask, no. But offer, yes. And I did leave that job."

"I know, Sam. Berger told me he'd been flashing rings at you non-stop after he got to Lisbon--which, I'll have you know, is not a cave."

"And I was practical, not a two-faced Frenchman. Now, touching as this reunion has been, I did come to this bar expecting a drink," Renault broke in before departing to flag down Francois and eye a few pretty young things.

"How long are you staying, Rick?"

"At least a week. Then Renault and I are going to gather intelligence in Alsace. If you're free too...."

Sam smiled and sipped his drink. "I appreciate your asking, Rick, but I'm happy here, for now. There's still a lot of rebuilding to do in Paris."

"I'd like to come back, Sam, but if I can't--well, I've said it before, you can guess to which person, but we'll always have Paris."


End file.
